This Same Earth

The assistant’s job didn’t pay all that much, but it had decent benefits, and since Beatrice was independently—if quietly—wealthy, money wasn’t her chief concern.

“Hey, B!”

“Morning.”

“How’s it going?”

She waved and smiled at the quiet morning greetings of her coworkers as she made her way to the small office where she spent her days. She was currently using her rather extensive knowledge of Spanish and Latin to translate early documents from the California missions. Many of the old papers were just storage records or letters between priests, but occasionally, she came upon something in the jumbled records that gave insight into the complicated political workings of California’s early Spanish settlements.

“Good morning, Beatrice.” Dr. Stevens poked her head into Beatrice’s small office and smiled. An attractive blond woman in her mid-fifties, she wore a heather grey suit and a pair of stylish black glasses that framed her blue eyes. “Can you still help me close tonight?”

Beatrice nodded at her boss and grabbed her coffee cup, preparing to get a refill in the lunchroom. A headache from the night before started to gnaw at the space between her eyes.

“Morning. And yes, I can. I was wondering if I could take an extra hour at lunch today since I’m staying late. I’m supposed to meet a friend downtown, and if I had some extra time I’d appreciate it.”

Dr. Stevens thought for a moment, then shrugged. “That shouldn’t be a problem. I need you to finish those letters, but you’ll be able to work late tonight. I really just need an extra body here to meet staff requirements. The group from USC doesn’t need much help, and we’ve just got one other late appointment who’s looking at some of the Lincoln archives.”

She snorted as she turned on her computer. “Lincoln, huh?”

“Have you worked with those at all? The bodyguard’s papers are particularly fascinating. Some of the letters—”

“Yeah, I did a whole project on some Lincoln documents as an undergrad. Not really relevant to what I’m doing now.”

Dr. Stevens cocked her head. Beatrice immediately regretted her curt tone and looked up at her boss with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. I’m feeling rotten this morning. Please excuse me. I appreciate the information.”

The curator smirked. “Late night with the boyfriend?”

“I wish. No, just some…stupid stuff. And I think I might be getting sick.” …of thinking about a man I’m never going to see again and regretting words in a journal he’ll probably never read.

“I hope not. You just got back from vacation.”

Two months ago. Beatrice offered her a tight smile and stood, brushing her hands along her slim-cut, black slacks. She picked up her empty mug and walked toward the doorway.

“I’m going to grab some coffee, can I get you anything?”

“No,” Dr. Stevens said. “I’m fine. I’m supposed to be giving a talk with a visiting lecturer at ten, so I’m going to go prepare, and I’ll let you get back to work. Take the extra hour at lunch, and I’ll see you this evening.”

Beatrice nodded and walked down to get more coffee, glancing at the framed art along the walls.

“Hangin’ around, Art.” She snorted. “Just hangin’ around.”

When she finally broke for lunch and sped down to Colorado Street to meet Dez at their favorite Spanish restaurant, she had moved past headache and into starving. She sat at one of the sidewalk tables and ordered a small plate of oil-roasted almonds to nibble on until her friend arrived.

Desiree Riley, or Dez as her friends called her, was the quintessential California girl. She’d grown up in Santa Monica and—if not for her parents insisting she leave for a few months to tour Europe after she graduated—would have happily stayed in Southern California her entire life. She’d gone to UCLA for both undergraduate and graduate work, completing her Masters in Information Science the same year as Beatrice.

They had become unexpected friends, the blond surfer girl and the quiet Texan in black boots and even blacker eyeliner; but as the years passed, they found their own friendly equilibrium. Beatrice stopped dying her hair pitch-black in favor of her natural, dark chocolate brown, and Dez had learned how to ride a motorcycle and even had a few piercings that mom and dad didn’t know about.

“B!”

She heard her name shouted from a passing car and looked up to see Dez’s silver Jetta slowing as cars honked behind her.

“Dez, stop blocking the road!”

“Oh,” she waved a careless hand. “I will, but parking is crazy today. Order that sangria pitcher for two, okay?”

“I’m working today, you lush.”

The honking behind the Jetta only got more persistent.

“Who says I’m sharing? I’ll be there as soon as I find a spot.” She lifted her hand to daintily flip off the driver behind her, who was shouting out his window.

“Red wine sangria for two, please,” Beatrice said to the waiter, who had been staring at the commotion. He nodded with an amused smile and walked back inside. Dez huffed up the sidewalk a few minutes later and plopped down in the chair across from her friend, blowing a kiss to the waiter who dropped off the drinks.

“Okay, I’m drinking and so are you.”

“Dez—”

“No ‘buts.’ You have been in a mood ever since you got back from Chile, and it’s irritating. This is the first chance we’ve had to talk without Mano around, so spill. Everything.”